I love writing, but I don’t consider myself a writer. I only prefer writing over some other things: speaking, cooking, cleaning the house and organizing parties.

I don’t consider myself a writer. Perhaps saving myself from the troubles of becoming one makes my craft even more rusty. I can’t call myself a writer for even the renowned, sought-after and the highly acclaimed playwright I know cringes at the thought. Nevertheless, there is so much delight and joy when people include their names among the canons. There must have been an unrecognized humility and unprofessed pride in all of us.

I don’t have a world of my own; though there are times when I wish I can just retreat to a special sanctuary to where only I have the keys. Writers, they have that, a world that makes up their sanctuary. They are lost in their made-up world and enjoy every minute of it. I am too distracted to enjoy, let alone get lost in my introduction, finishing a story then becomes far from possible.

It is when I am writing that I feel so free. Writing liberates me. Oftentimes, I write with the notion that someone might read my entries. When that happens, I shrink back and withhold myself. Writing is a form of expression, it's like shouting on top of a hill or laughing out loud. I write when I am most down. I write then suddenly I feel right.

I know I was made to write, and I love it when I do that one thing I believe I was made for.